


Hollow Victories

by SharpestKnife



Series: Brothers and Bedfellows [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Facials, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Jealousy, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Painful Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon wants Robb all to himself, but Theon Greyjoy always wins, even when he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow Victories

**Author's Note:**

> The follow-up to [Sore Loser](http://archiveofourown.org/works/907975).

Theon doesn't think much of Jon Snow. It's always held true, and he's never made an effort to hide that fact. His insistent sulking irritates him, and the way he follows Robb around is a constant thorn in his side. It's not that Theon is jealous of the attention the bastard takes from him, but he thinks again, and yes, it's precisely that. He likes it that Robb laughs at his jokes and listens open mouthed to his tall stories, but all Snow has to do is walk by with that stupid pout, and off Robb goes nipping at his heels.

Now Robb, on the other hand, he's very fond of. He likes his easy laughter, the brilliance of his smile, and the way he wears his skin so comfortably. He's too fond of him, perhaps, and it's especially clear since the day he wrenched that first sweet swell of release from the blushing boy lord. Theon hadn't seen his face when it happened since his mouth was too busy at work in Robb's ear. He remembers the tremble in his voice all too well, however. That, and the stilted rhythm of his breath as he came falling apart in a wet mess into Theon's hand.

It's the same hand that is now absently slipping its way into Theon's breeches as he thinks of how Robb's face might have looked. Theon stretches out on his bed, and the furs sliding under his skin, the rough glide of his hands over his body and his cock, they're excellent company for his rare nights alone. He pictures Robb's wet mouth stuttering as he comes, imagines the darkness of craving blurring his blue eyes.

Theon's cock is free from his trousers now, and he smothers it in his hand to ease away the chill of the night air. He grows harder as he thinks of the timber of Robb's voice, the woody smell of his curls. He wonders how those lips would feel wrapped wantonly about the head of his cock, how Robb might sound as he suckles and slavers, and soon Theon's curiosity leaves him and spurts in thick slashes all over his belly and chest.

He drifts off with a satisfied smirk and fully forgets to tidy his mess. Sleep steals over him not with the familiar cloak of blackness, but a crisp shade of blue.

*******

"Stay away from him," Snow says.

Theon sneers. "Make me."

It's war in Winterfell once more, in a small and private way, for once. Snow and Theon are butting foreheads in the armory, having decided that Robb shouldn't have to know about their little disagreement.

"I don't like how you touch him, Greyjoy. How you look at him. He's mine, ward."

"Better a ward than a bastard, Snow." Theon prickles with joy when he sees Snow's hands curl into fists. It's so easy to rile him up, and Theon has had years of practice.

Snow's face is twisted into another of his black glowers. "You keep away from Robb."

Theon crosses his arms and puts on his most infuriating face. "I don't negotiate with brother fuckers, Snow."

Strong palms slam into Theon's chest and his head bangs against the wall. It's painful as hell, but the look on Snow's face is delicious and completely worth it.

"I don't see why you're getting so angry, Snow. I'm just naming you for what you are. A bastard, and a brother fucker."

A fist flies dangerously close to Theon's face, then pounds into the wall just by his head. He can't remember the last time he's seen him this angry. A feral snarl rises out of Snow's throat, rough and low enough to send a faint shiver down Theon's spine.

"You stay away from him, _hostage_ , or I swear to the gods, I will break your face into pieces." He gives Theon one final withering glare, then stalks straight for the door.

Theon can't resist loosing one last snipe, so he fires it at Snow's back. "Does he like it up the arse, Snow? Let me know so I'm ready."

He checks to make sure Snow is gone, and when he knows he's alone, Theon rubs at the tender spot on the back of his head and mutters. "Brother fucker."

*******

For how much he hates Snow, Theon acknowledges that there's a tie that bonds them. Just as Snow follows Robb around like a pup on a leash, Theon has a keen, unerring knowledge of when the bastard is angry. He uses his sense to track Snow to his bedchamber, where the young wolf is licking his wounds.

It's quite accurate, in fact. The bastard's sitting on his bed rubbing at his hand, and Theon can see from the door that his knuckles are bloodied, no doubt scraped from the punch in the armory.

He announces his presence with a sigh. "You really should learn to control your temper, Snow."

"You really should learn to control your ugly mouth." It's only here that Theon notices how Snow's shirt is missing. He thinks that he's probably just preparing for bed, and tries to ignore that there's an interesting new hardness about his body: larger arms, tighter joints, a supple waist. He coughs to clear his head of the image.

"I'll cut you a deal, Snow. We'll split him. You can have him three nights in a week, and I'll have him four."

Snow's face creases with thought. _He's actually thinking about it. Bloody idiot_.

He frowns. "Why do you get him for four?"

"Because I'm older, and better-looking, and more experienced. I can fuck him far better than you can ever hope to."

Snow nods slowly. "I'm quite sure that isn't the case."

"How are you so confident?"

"Because I'm the one in bed with him, and you're the one begging."

Somehow the words fail to raise his hackles. Theon's not sure why his foot is nudging the door close, but now the chamber is sealed off from the rest of the castle, and his feet are taking him closer to the bed. He's being watched suspiciously. Snow scowls as he approaches, and Theon notices the small pile of phials on the bed.

"From Maester Luwin," Snow says, tilting his head. His hands are shaking and he's clearly having a hard time treating his wound.

Again Theon's body betrays him, and his hands are reaching out for a phial. He takes Snow's hand. The bastard hisses at his touch, but doesn't pull away. Theon takes a rag and pats away the blood, and he carefully rubs the salve into the ragged injury. The confusion is evident on both of their faces, and Theon fights the beginnings of a blush.

"Wipe that stupid pout off your face, Snow. Robb's not here to see it."

Snow rolls his eyes, but he doesn't protest. He sighs low and steady at the coolness spreading over his hand. Theon tries hard not to swallow.

"What now, Greyjoy?"

"What now, indeed. It should be me, honestly. He'll scream my name the way he's never screamed yours, Snow."

Snow pulls his hand away with what appears to be measured patience. He looks Theon over, then cocks his head. "It's just occurred to me that you're jealous."

"Clearly. Robb's settling for green boys like you when he could be lying with the likes of me."

"That's not what I meant," Snow says, and his look is knowing.

Theon sniffs. "Don't be ridiculous."

Snow grins, and the particular crook of his mouth is maddening in its arrogance. "I'll stop saying it when you stop looking at my body."

Theon swallows because the bastard is right. He'd been staring at Snow's chest, wondering how smooth it would feel under his touch. He opens his mouth to protest, but Snow's hand is already on the front of his breeches. It's not unskilled the way Theon had expected it to be.

He's only had time to draw a few panicked breaths before the laces are undone and Snow is thumbing at his leaking wetness. It should be disgusting, and Theon should be going limp at the very thought, but Snow's hand on his cock is hot and coarse, and it feels like it could be Robb's, so he bucks against it, then sees blue when he closes his eyes.

Snow's other hand, the wounded one, is pressing firmly against his shoulder, and Theon leans with its force, not expecting the strength of it. Theon's back is on the bed and Snow is teasing at the slit of his cock, and a little bit more of him flows out in a slow trickle. He moans, then stops himself when he realizes _it's fucking Snow_.

It feels too good to fight, though, and one warm hand is as good as another, so Theon lets himself rut against the firm grasp of Snow's fingers. He's not sure when the kiss began, and Snow's mouth is soft and pliant, but there's a slant of anger in his tongue and his teeth. Theon's pride is screaming for him to stop, but Snow's mouth is warm, and it's moist, and it tastes just faintly of honey and ale.

Reason works its way through the fog of want, and Theon slowly, somewhat hesitantly remembers his purpose. It's a contest of wills, and of hands and of mouths, and Theon imagines that Robb is the prize, so he stands his ground and girds for battle. He bites on Snow's tongue, hard enough that he groans and pulls away.

"This isn't courtship, Snow. Get on with it."

Theon thinks he sees hurt on Snow's face, but it quickly passes. Snow's hand leaves his cock, and it's pressing at the small bank of flesh just underneath. Theon wonders how he's never been touched there before, and he twists away even as a gasped rush of pleasure slips out. The bastard grins, and now his hand is pressing into him with thick, rough fingers. Theon thinks of Pyke crumbling and sliding into the sea, watches his kingdom drown, and it's almost enough to stop him from squealing.

The fingers disappear. Theon looks up at Snow's suspiciously sullen face. He finds the glint of conquest in his eyes, and panics. A voice in his head hisses a shrill warning. _We're fucked_. The bastard's hungry mouth and eager growl tell him that he's absolutely correct. His hands fly up to strike, but Snow is too quick. He holds him down by his wrists, and Theon feels something thick, long and hard press at his entrance. He screams.

"It's too big!"

The intrusion stops for a moment, and Theon bridles with impudent rage when he sees the smug look on Snow's face. He thinks back to the feel of Robb's cock through his breeches. It had fit in his hand nicely and was longer still, but at least its size felt somehow correct. More importantly, normal. Whatever is threatening to enter him now is a different beast completely. Theon frowns at the widening simper on Snow's stupid mouth, and again he questions the bastard's parentage.

Snow's smile is much looser now, and entirely filled with taunting, and he pushes again. Theon shakes as he feels it stretch him, and it hurts, but it's hard, wet and warm, and when it touches the very bottom of him, he shudders and fights to stifle a long moan. The pleasure is fleeting, because Snow starts to pump, and it's nothing but pain.

Theon cries out, and every slow stroke is a theater of agony. He thinks back to all the women he's ever fucked, and the one or two boys he may have forgotten about, and mumbles a quiet apology. Then he remembers that he's nowhere near as thick as Snow is, and it couldn't have possibly hurt as much as this does, and gods it feels like the bastard's about to rip him apart.

A pitiful noise fills the room, and Theon grimaces at the sound of himself blurting out a stifled wail. He clamps his eyes shut and bites his lip to avoid giving Snow the pleasure. He starts at the touch of a rough thumb stroking at his cheek, wiping away tears he didn't know were streaming. The soft gesture is repeated, and when Theon opens his eyes, he's surprised to see the look on Snow's face. It's almost affectionate, and there's a tenderness behind the smolder of his eyes.

It's all he can do not to gasp. Snow looks so different this way, fervent and yearning. Almost pretty. The feeling inside him is bordering on pleasure now, and Theon's mind snaps back to lucidity. His cruelness twangs back too, and with it comes an instinctive desire to lash at Snow's pride.

"I wonder if Robb fucks as badly as you do."

Every hint of softness drops from Snow's face. Tension takes hold of his spine, and Theon feels Snow's body, and impossibly, his cock, harden even more. The kindness and niceties forgotten, Snow begins to thrust furiously. He fucks as if he wants to prove something, as if he means to split Theon in half. Theon thinks that these may be his last moments alive, and his lips frame a silent prayer.

The assault inside him is painful, and the bastard is tugging on his wrists, and still he struggles to escape, but he knows that it's too late. And in spite of the humiliation and the pain, something about the way Snow is rutting and gasping makes Theon think that the bastard enjoys it far more than he lets on, and in a small way, he begins to enjoy it too. He feels a taunting barb form in the corner of his mind, so he nocks it on his tongue, and it flies as his mouth falls open.

"Does the tightness of me please you, Lord Snow?"

The bastard barely reacts, but Theon still finds it in a glimmer of anger in his eye, there, a tiny crack in the dam. He wants to urge it open. He lifts his head with difficulty and brings his mouth to Snow's ear. This barb is sharper, and this time it's a whisper.

"Does it make you long for your brother, _bastard_?"

A low howl rumbles out of Snow's chest, and Theon flushes hot when the space inside of him fills with a bitter swell of shame, driven there by the rush of the bastard's seed. Snow is soaked in sweat, and Theon finds the smell of him both repulsive and succulent. His skin is warmed by a low flush of blood just underneath, and Snow simmers in the afterglow.

He finally releases Theon's wrists, but makes no sign to remove himself. He's panting, sputtering, and the look on his face is one of exhaustion, and Theon thinks, triumph.

"Are we even now, Greyjoy?"

Snow sees the grin creep to Theon's lips far too late, and he has no time to react. The ironborn twists and shoves him against the bed, then pins him down with his hands and the surprising strength of his thighs. He's still sore, gods, all the way from his arse to his mouth, but he means to make the bastard pay, and pay hard. Snow is too spent from the effort and moves to fight back, but he's drained and his struggle is feeble. Theon begins to grind against the raw, oversensitive flesh of the cock still inside him, and that's when Snow really panics.

The reddening is back in full bloom on Snow's face, and this time it's colored with a daub of fear. He's gulping for air, and begging for mercy, but this is a catch that the kraken doesn't mean to devour, only rend and destroy.

"Greyjoy, please." The request is hoarse, pathetic. "Stop."

The stuttered plea tears through Theon's body like a stoking fire, and now he's clenching himself around Snow's cock as he grinds lower, deeper against his hips. Theon leers as he sees Snow's face arc into a wince. He's gritting his teeth and it's clear that the pain far outweighs the pleasure. Theon chuckles when he sees Snow tremble, hears the echo of agony in his throat.

His insides have stopped aching, and the thick seed is warm and slick around Snow's tortured hardness. The tightness and pain have finally paved a wet road to pleasure, and Theon rides it with renewed vigor. He sips in a burst of air as he feels himself thrumming to completion. His hands fly to his hips, just at the precise time that his cock tells him it's unnecessary. Before his fingers even make contact, he spends in a gush across the bed, all over Snow's heaving chest, in glistening streaks through his hair, and in mocking droplets on his pretty face.

The bastard's whimpering. Theon can hear it, and even now his slightest movement elicits whines from Snow's mouth. He leans closer to his face and admires the portrait he's painted in seed and in sweat. He's shivering, and Theon can smell shame and defeat on his breath. Snow mewls and pulls away when Theon licks at his jaw for a taste of his own victory. Before he dismounts, he whispers, and makes sure to ladle his words with the richest helping of scorn he can muster.

"Now we're even, _Snow_."

*******

Some time later, it's a familiar sight in the yard. Snow is merciless with his blade, and Theon merciless with his mouth. It's as if this was the only battlefield they had ever seen together, and nothing untoward had happened between them. Theon's bottom still hurts, of course, but it's a badge he wears with honor, and a bit of a limp.

Still, there's a difference in the way Snow moves around Theon now, and nobody else seems to see it. There's a trace of something like surrender. He's cowed like a cub with its tail between its legs, and his sulks are just a little deeper, more… Pouty. When he flinches from harsh words, Theon almost feels sorry when he sees his face suck inward like a lemon that's just tasted itself. He finds it intriguing. A little charming, even.

It's a realization that dawns in a flash of stark white horror. It's when Theon starts to wonder when Jon Snow became so pretty. He thinks on whether he really won at all, and the tiny voice in his head whispers once more. _Well. Now we're really fucked._


End file.
